Views of Champagne and Sugar Beets

My best attribute is...

So I'm working a lot with these older students in the Electrotechnics program. Side-note, I feel like an idiot because I don't even know if electrotechnics is a word in English, and moreover, I don't exactly understand what their types of things they are learning - could it possibly be electrician type stuff? But because they are on a more technical track, I'm working with them on practical things like, how to present yourself in a job interview. It's pretty tedious. For some of these guys, it's just not clicking. Last week I was asking about past job experience - fine. A. described his job as a security guard in an office building. I asked him to describe what he liked most about his job, and he responded (asking for help a for a few words with the phrase, "What is the English for __Insert French Word____"). When we finally got his response translated, put together correctly, it was something like this, "My favorite thing about my job was getting to search the bodies of pretty girls." I asked, "A., imagine that you are interviewing for a job right now. Are you going to tell your employer that your favorite thing about your job was feeling up women?" He said, "Yes, of course, it shows that I have a good humor." Today, the Question du Jour was, "What is your best attribute?" So, "What's your best attribute?" I asked W. He responded, "My best attribute is my regularity." I laughed and told him, without explaining my chuckles, that he meant to say punctuality. At least I assume he meant punctuality. It would be a sad thing if all someone had going for them was their regularity - though better than nothing, I guess.

Je suis bien tombé…

I am the proud owner of a brand new bicycle. Somewhat proud. It’s not like my bike at home. It doesn’t go fast. It’s a hybrid. It has a rack on the back so I can carry stuff. It’s my utility bike that I absolutely need to go places like the supermarket or basically anywhere. My school is on top of the hill looking over town and it’s such an annoying walk – wah wah wah. So, being the rational young man that I am, I also purchased a helmet when I got said bike. I wear said helmet, too, on all my excursions around town. [Background, My high school is a compound of several large buildings that are surrounded by a fence and you have to go out through one small red gate that’s specifically for pedestrians the other big gates are just for cars. You can’t smoke inside the compound so you most exit through the pedestrian gate. As water follows the path of least resistance, so do the smokers. They stand on either side of the gate as close as possible to the school without breaking the rules. It seems that the students do the same. I don’t know if it’s a case of follow the leader, but they cluster around the gate in huge groups spilling further and further into the 1.5 lane one-way Rue des Chesneaux that passes in front of the school.] It seems that I most always start and end my excursions on the hour when students have a short break before needing to hurry to their next class so there are always droves of them standing by that damn gate that I need to walk out. They all know me, that American in their classes and they stare at me like an animal at the zoo, the helmet pushes them over the edge though. First of all, no biker wears a helmet in France, except for the road bikers who were decked out in their spandex of whom I have seen very few. It should be expected then that I get all sorts of comments and laughs about my head attire, and I do. Teasing aside, I went mountain biking with a few teachers Wednesday. I felt bad for them because they were kind enough to invite lost old me along, and here I am with a bike that is a little bit more a mountain bike than a road bike, but still – not meant for such trails they took me down which were many – we were gone for 4 hours. They took me on the Grand Tour de Chateau Thierry. Feeling it necessary to take me to the American Cemetery and American Monument commemorating the American role in the battle next door in Belleau Wood in WWI.

Change of gears (so to speak). In class this week, I finally settled into my routine – taking students out of class and working with them in small groups. Some of the students that I work with have already graduated high school and are currently in a technical program at the high school which gives them some kind of training in electrotechnics (I am unsure how to translate electrotechnique and I feel like an anglophone imposter everytime someone asks me how to say it English). So, this group of students are 20 years old or so. Anyway, I met them on Monday and we were doing a question and answer session: ask me what it’s like in America… One student asked me, “Woould yu leek tu go tu zee poob weet me an my freenz Thuursdai?” After an awkward pause, I said that I would have to check to see if going to a bar with my students was expressly forbidden, could lead to the termination of my contract, get me deported from France, etc. After a talking with a teacher who said he didn’t see anything wrong with it (and offered to come along if it would make me feel more comfortable! – I told him I could handle it), I accepted the next day. So, I expected that Thursday, I would go with S. and his friends to the bar for a beer or two – I was a little off the mark. First was S. house where I had a beer with him and J. (nicknamed Tonton [uncle]). Then it was off to Carrefour (the supermarket) where we bought frozen pizzas and a bottle of whiskey. Then it was off to L.'s apartment to fetch him and R.. Then it was off to B.’s where we spent a few hours eating pizza, drinking whiskey, and hard cider. Then it was off to the Comptoir Latino (Latino Counter), which I am happy to report was much more up my alley than Bar du Centre-Ville. I had one beer (half pint – 3.50 euro [~$5], ouch) before finally excusing myself to head back to school. It was midnight and I hadn’t yet prepared for my classes that started at nine the next morning.

So, somehow, I have fallen into all sorts of people who are interested (up till the present at least) in being friendly, and have been met with almost exclusively positive reactions. For instance, I went to the market this morning and a man selling apples gave me a kilo of apples for free, I guess because I spoke passable French, also he lived in Washington State for a year, learning how to run an orchard, I think is what he said, and was excited to hear that my brother was living there now. Unfortunately, I had to turn down an invitation to go the movies with a group of teachers tomorrow. Why? Because, L. invited me to his birthday party…

Castles and Xenophobes

Chateau Thierry, so named, as you might have guessed, for the Medieval Castle (Chateau=Castle) that dominate(s/d) the hill overlooking both the old downtown and overlooking the Marne. There are various placards posted around the hill and throughout the archaeological site that explain the history of the castle, the evolution of its fortifications through the centuries and what famous endeavours it figured into. Unfortunately, I can't tell you much about this because, while I am able to get around alright in everyday situations ie. ordering coffee or asking for directions, for some reason in college they didn't teach us many words relating to the fields of masonry or the military so I didn't really get much out of those little paragraphs. I do think that the building was begun in the 12th century and Joan of Arc marched triumphantly through the gate (look at the photo that I posted a few days ago) in 1429 during some battle in the 100 years war. Besides that I'm not so sure. Anyway, the castle itself is gone, I believe you can see its foundations on the top of the hill, but the surrounding ramparts are still in pretty good shape. The end effect is one where I am able to squint my eyes, pretend that the year is 1300 and imagine the good life that the lord and lady must be living inside (compared to me the lowly serf). Well, inside the walls kind of feels like a city park with a path around the outside and lots of pretty good sized trees. Only the extraordinary view from the top of the Medieval walls and turrets displels that more pedestrian semblance. So I went on a little run yesterday making a little circle on a path around the bottom of the castle walls before i passed over the mini bridge which passed over what once was a moat, through the double gate and onto the interior grounds. I jogged around the inside and when I was ready to head back I took the alternate way back which was ... through a narrow opening in the side of one of those turrets, into an unlit stairway smelling of centuries of must down the spiral staircase whose stone steps have had their edges worn smooth by countless people running up and down through the ages, and finally out of the second narrow arched doorway out of the turret at ground level outside of the castle. Again, with just a pinch of imagination I could have continued down the second flight of stairs (which actually only exists in my imagination) and walked into the dungeon with the rows of prisoners chained to the walls. So, yes, different scenery here compared to what I am accustomed.

To briefly discuss xenophobia, that is fear of foreigners, let me recount an anecdote. In the months leading up to my departure to France, and the numerous times that I got to explain to people where I was going and what I would be doing, one of the most common reactions that I came across was that I should be careful about the French. After all, they hate Americans. Right? I was of the opinion, perhaps a living a little on the sunny side of life, that there would be ignorant Frenchmen just as there are Americans and those that I would be interested in meeting would accept or reject me based more on my character than my nationality. Fast forward to a few nights ago. Kira (the German assistant working at my school) and Shireen and Sandra (the English and German, respectively, assistants at the other high school in town) wanted to have a Wednesday night on the town. However, it seems that this place closes up even earlier than Vermont, which is certainly saying something. Almost all the establishments advertising themselves as bars, whether they are or not is up for discussion, close at 8 or 9 at night. One place, however, was open – the Bar de Centre-Ville (the Downtown Bar). It is decorated like I always imagine Back Home Again (a Lord of The Rings themed restaurant ran by a religious cult in central Vermont which has been much touted over the years by Kristin). Yes, let it suffice to say that the landscape painted on the wall in what appeared to be tempra paint could have been done by someone with much less skill than me and certainly with less taste. Anyway, not all the French are super-chic. There’s some pretty rough ones too. It appears that they like to congregate at Bar de Centre-Ville. A fairly international table, 2 Germans, 1 American, and a girl from Trinidad and Tobago. When the bartender asked us what we wanted to drink, the girl from Trinidad asked for wine but kind of mixed up the words which got him off to a rough start. He called for a plump man on the patio who spoke English to come translate for us. The other 3 of us certainly spoke better French than he English, yet we were forced wait patiently as he struggled to understand a question such as “How much?” and come up with a way to tell us. So then we became the center of all attention in the bar. A woman behind us with a particularly low voice. Certainly lower than my own – I did many double takes to check for the presence of an Adam’s Apple, there was none. She must have had a rough life. The evening certainly took a turn for the interesting when she threw her miniature pinscher into our booth and whom she proceeded to instruct to bouffe (eat) the foreigners. When we got the dog thing straightened out (it was just as confused as we were), we spent the next 20 minutes or so listening to this woman railing against us and were pleasantly amused as she went through the list of nationalities that she thought that we were. It started off as Quebecois but by the end of the evening she had decided quite certainly that we were English. 0 for 4. Unfortunately as we were leaving Shireen bent over and petted the dog making little noises and told the woman how cute her dog was. Perfect encouragement for one more harangue before we left. So, the moral of the story is that we will not be going back to Bar de Centre-Ville and that xenophobia is not just aimed at Americans, the Brits and the Canucks get theirs in good turn as well.

Visuals

I live on the top floor of the high in which I work (Lycee Jules Verne). Yes, I actually have two balconies. Regard, the East. Note Medieval portal.



Now the West. I believe the hill in the background is covered with Champagne vineyards.



And every town should have its name written in flowers along the banks of a river. Am I right?

Red Tape? More please!

Thus came to an end my first week in France. Much as I would like to blame my strange sleeping habits on jet lag, I have adjusted to the new time zones. If only every adjustment moved at such a natural pace. Of course, I studied a significant amount of French in college - enough to say just about anything that I need to - albeit sometimes in a rather inelegant manner. So why, then, was I surprised to hear that here, in France everybody speaks, well, French. Maybe surprised isn't quite the right word, but nonetheless the auditory sight of everyone around me jibber jabbering away in that other language that I speak reamains somewhat surreal. Oh yeah, nobody spoke English in Madagascar, but I knew that I didn't speak Malagasy, so there was no real point in straining my ears and my mind trying to decipher the words flying back and forth through the air. If people needed me they new they could reach me in French. Life was easy. Now, though, I actually do speak the language that everyone around me does, although about 30% as well. What hidden instructions may be hidden in each and every interaction I have with someone. What long list of things will go wrong if I don't correctly comprehend each little detail. Enter stress stage left. Never before have I been so hyper-conscious of the words coming out of my mouth nor of the words filtering in. When I went to a one day orientation for all the language assistants stationed in Picardy (the region in France in which I live), speaking English again was like a glass of iced tea on a hot summer day or [insert simile of choice].

On a less psychological level, this country is in love with its paperwork. I already applied for and received a visa before I left - but it's only good for three months in France - not sufficient for my seven. Therefore I have to apply for my carte de sejour, my residence permit or green card if you will. Fine, well, before I can apply for carte de sejour I have to have opened up a bank account in France. Well, apparently it's the national law (or something) that you have to have a carte de sejour before you are able to open an account. Well, with a little fancy footwork including signed contracts from my school, attestations that I had a place to live in France and some who do you know type stuff going on, the bank account is in the process of moving forward. Now getting back to my carte de sejour, I have to have a medical examination (before which I have to have enrolled in the social security program here which also requires a bank account) and a translated copy of my birth certificate. Of course the translator lives in another town, so the delays add up. Luckily for me though, on a rough week I only work 12 hours a week and suffice it to say that while my contract started on Wednesday the expectation that I be in the classroom ready to go (thankfully) did not. So, with many a trip to the office to beg (the secretary) Sylvie's help, I am on my way to successfully, I hope, navigating that treacherous sea of paperwork.